


I Can Feel You Breathe

by 13atoms (2Atoms)



Category: Doctor Who, Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: Angst, F/M, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, Smut, The Master gets scared and cuddly
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-30
Updated: 2020-05-01
Packaged: 2021-03-01 23:13:32
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,261
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23935129
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/2Atoms/pseuds/13atoms
Summary: The Master always seems distant, unimpressed with your work as you travel with him in the TARDIS. He's got a strange way of showing he cares. Once you're injured, expecting him to be angry, he shows his true affections.
Relationships: The Master (Dhawan)/Reader, The Master (Doctor Who)/Reader
Comments: 12
Kudos: 120





	1. Smoke

**Author's Note:**

> This is based on the following prompt from @iwouldfuckthemaster on tumblr:
> 
> Dhawan!Master would totally be strict with you, telling you off when you take risks or leave his sight, until exactly the moment you get hurt. Then you'd realise: he's terrified of losing you. Instead of the cold shoulder, or a spanking, he'd take you slowly, desperately in the bedroom you'd previously barely been in, stopping mid-thrust to kiss you, to stroke your face, mutter sweet nothings as he kissed your neck. He'd finally fall asleep on you like that, warm, heavy, refusing to let you go.

“Keep up!”

The Master didn’t even spare you a glance as he ran, his voice drowned out by the roaring of twisting metal and explosions around you. The explosions you’d set were overtaking the ship more rapidly than expected.

You would have forgotten which storeroom door was the TARDIS’ entrance if not for the sight of his coat billowing behind him as you rounded the corner, fighting the pain in your lungs and your thighs to follow him. Acrid smoke was choking you, making your eyes water, blurring his figure and the route ahead. Every cell in your body wanted to drop to the ground, be clear of the toxic smoke at head height, but you knew this spaceship was minutes from breaking apart. If you didn’t make it to safety before this corridor decompressed, you’d be dead in the vacuum of space in seconds. Plus, you had to keep up with The Master.

If he forgot you before he dematerialised the TARDIS, you’d be a goner. And he’d forgotten you before.

Finally, you wrenched the TARDIS door closed behind you, barely feeling any relief from inhaling the clean air inside the ship. The Master was already flipping levers at the console, tapping keys on a computer. The second he saw you were through the door, the ship began to move.

Even he was panting, you noted.

He was also _livid_.

His plan had gone wrong, though things had worked out in the end. He would probably be a grumpy bastard for the next few days.

At least you might not live long enough to see that.

Gasps of clear air _hurt_. Your airways still felt like they were burning even as you slumped against the TARDIS doors, thanking the ship quietly for the water bottle she always left there for you. You gulped down the cool water, even as it made you splutter.

“How did that go wrong?”

Fucking hell.

You rasped a breath as he approached, discarding the bottle and wishing you could stand and glare him down from your full height. Instead, you remained unspeaking slumped on the floor, trying to look unphased as he started yet another tantrum.

“Your job was _so_ simple. Did I have to write it down for you? Hm? I couldn’t have made it any easier. What’s the point of you, if you couldn’t even do this?”

“I was being _shot at_.”

“They clearly weren’t very good aims. You couldn’t have been slower. Frankly, I don’t think you could have fucked it up more.”

Everyone’s fault but his. You knew it was just his way of coping, but the jabs were hard to ignore.

“Pure luck, that the plan still worked. Sheer _luck!_ ”

He was screaming into the empty room, but it was just pathetic with no one to scream back in reply.

He didn’t scare you. Not anymore.

“Don’t you understand how annoying that is? All that planning, time, _brilliant_ tech, and you still screwed it up. We could have been killed!”

The cough you were concealing hurt your lungs, but you fought to keep quiet. You knew how much your silence annoyed him, even more than arguing back would. Fortunate, too. Speech didn’t feel possible right now, with the dryness in your mouth, the shallowness of your breaths.

“Why aren’t you talking?”

You fixed him with silent glare, a raise of your eyebrows that made him quit his pacing and crouch to your level. Your lungs felt ready to burst, every breath like dragging viscous oil through your slightly parted lips. As his face got closer to yours, inspecting you with the disinterest of assessing a strange new artifact on an alien planet, it was a fight to hide the watering of your eyes. You tried to blink away the burn of the smoke, tried to focus on him as your eyes watered. Your head was starting to pound.

Suddenly, the world shifted, and went dark. Too much pain, too little oxygen. You couldn’t pretend to be fine, even to spite The Master.

Your ragged coughing filled the TARDIS as you slumped forwards, eyes screwed shut against the pain that lights inflicted. Once you started coughing, you couldn’t stop, dragging in breaths irregularly and raggedly.

His cool hands were on your forehead, on your wrists, flitting across your body to try and figure out what was happening.

“What’s wrong. _Damn it! What’s wrong?_ ”

His damn respiratory bypass – combined with how far he was from the start of the fire – meant he’d barley been affected. You’d been closer; tasked with placing the most crucial bomb. You’d had further to run, had to breathe in more smoke with your _inferior physiology._

“Tell me!”

“Smoke.”

You had to choke the word out, between coughs and breaths as your body fought for the oxygen to stay conscious. He understood.

You found yourself being lifted, held against his chest bridal-style. It was hard not to move too much with each cough, and you buried your face against his coat, desperately holding onto his lapel. The fabric reeked of smoke, overwhelming your senses. You missed the usual comfort of his cologne.

“You wander off and this is what happens!”

You’d done what he’d told you. ‘Wander’ was a bit rich.

His voice was still loud, especially so close to you, but drained of any venom or anger. It was a struggle to open your eyes, but you managed. Above you, you caught him watching your face, thick eyebrows furrowed with concern, lips pressed together.

It was an expression you’d never seen on his face.

Pain. Fear.

Not an ounce of aggression.

He looked away quickly, shocking you as he suddenly marched to a door you didn’t recognise, arms vice-grip tight around you as though you weighed nothing. You gripped his jacked as best you could, knowing it wouldn’t help, eyes squeezed shut to try and numb the pain.

Your head pounded as he laid you out on a hospital bed, his hands gently encouraging you to uncurl. You didn’t recognise the room, but he’d referred to it before. The medbay. A bright white room, with walls lined with equipment and medication cabinets, completely discordant with the outback-cabin aesthetic of the rest of the ship. You’d hoped to never see the inside of here. It was so _bright_.

Too much. Bad for your headache. You closed your eyes.

The coughing was back, each sudden inhale more uncomfortable than the last as your lungs tried desperately to deal with the smoke damage. It was hard to even think straight, to register The Master’s movements as he eased an oxygen mask over your face, securing it more gently than you’d known him to do anything. You felt tears leave your eyes as you fought not to cough, too exhausted to even wipe them away, embarrassment superseded by discomfort.

He didn’t meet your eyes as he adjusted the fit, pottering away again as soon as he could. It was barely a relief as pure oxygen hit your lungs, but it soothed the urge to cough your lungs out.

“I’m sorry.” He was almost muttering, moving in and out of your eyesight as the mask stayed pressed against your face. You breathed deeply.

“Fuck. I was mad about the bomb being misplaced… I didn’t even notice…”

You wanted to tell him it was okay, but it really wasn’t. Besides, The Master admitting he was… wrong? Once in a lifetime.

It was so brief you almost didn’t notice, but his thumbs painted a trail down your cheeks, drying the tear lines being carved through the ash on your face. He quickly moved away again.

“I didn’t think you’d be at risk. And it all went wrong… I swear, I didn’t think that would happen.”

Your worry ramped up as his eyes grew glassy, teary. Was this it? He wouldn’t be reacting like this unless you were dying, you were certain. You wondered if anyone else in the universe had been allowed to see this kind of vulnerability from him. Maybe they never survived long enough to tell the tale. It unnerved you, his silence, the way he was running his hands through his messed-up hair between rummaging through cabinets and fiddling with the cannister beside the bed.

Why wasn’t he rambling?

The oxygen you were inhaling suddenly became a pale green in colour as he injected something into the supply tube. You clamped your hands to your mask, determined to rip it off. The damn thing was well sealed to your face. It wouldn’t budge with the tiny amount of strength left in your muscles.

Fuck.

Was he really, actually going to kill you?

Oh god.

He dashed across the medbay, his hands covered yours on the mask after a few quick strides. He held the equipment in place, thumbs stroking your wrists until you stopped pulling at the plastic covering your face.

“Shh… its fine,” he murmured. “This is to fix the smoke damage. You need to breathe it in.”

You’d heard that tone before. Before someone was betrayed. Shot. Tricked. The urge to panic was overwhelming, but he was too strong. And you were _so_ tired.

You had no choice but to trust him.

Hesitantly, you stopped holding your breath. Inhaling the gas was painful. Even as your urge to cough was relieved, your airways felt like they were being burned all over again. His grip stayed strong as you fought the instinct to rip the gas supply off your face. The seal dug into your skin under his force.

Your eyes couldn’t focus on his face, but you could tell he was looking away.

Finally, the pain subsided and the gas in the tube returned to transparency. You relaxed slightly, shoulders untensing against the bed. The Master loosened his grip. His hands were still on your mask, but the pressure was gone.

“What, did you think I was poisoning you?”

His smile didn’t meet his eyes as your stared back up at him, unable to hide the fear in your eyes. He was trying to joke. Your heart sank as he stepped away.

You kept breathing rapidly, open-mouthed, grateful for the excuse to stay silent.

He didn’t want to hear your answer.

“Really?”

He kept on backing away, and you sat up as far as the tubes on your mouth would allow. With trembling fingers, you took the apparatus off your face, assuming it was fine when he didn’t dart forwards to replace it. The Timelord froze in place.

“You thought I was _poisoning_ you?”

You could see a muscle twitch in his cheek, and braced for the crashing of him knocking over a tray, or yelling back at you.

He didn’t move.

You didn’t feel light-headed anymore, the ache in your lungs already much-improved, and guilt filled the space in your chest which pain had once occupied. Your throat was working again, but you couldn’t bring yourself to speak.

Instead, you toyed with the mask in your hand, turning off the oxygen supply next to the infirmary bed.

Distantly, you heard his footsteps. The medbay door slammed.

You’d deal with him later.

Right now, you were just grateful for the ability to walk out of the medbay without dizziness, for the reduced ache in your legs. Whatever he’d given you must have helped your muscles recover, because the usual post-plan ache was gone. You’d have to ask for something like that after future escapades.

Guilt hit you again. God, of course he wouldn’t poison you. Of _course_.

It was hard to remember that when he was shouting at you.

He wasn’t in any of the corridors you walked down, and you had your suspicions where he was. You’d find him later. In the meantime, you stopped into your room.

The Master needed space. You needed the smell of smoke off you. In the mirror your skin looked greyed out, pale, and your eyes were bloodshot. A new wave of anger, that he hadn’t noticed how _obviously injured_ you were, rose up inside your chest.

As you washed your hair, the anger subsided, replaced with sheer appreciation that you were still alive. It was always a buzz, how much more you appreciated the small things after a day with him. Now, the familiar products smelled better than you could have ever imagined. The warmth of the water on your skin, the grey dust and grime washing down the drain, the softness of your favourite sleepwear, it all felt so much more vivid.

But all you could think about was The Master.

Fuck.

Of course he hadn’t been about to kill you.

You didn’t even bother crawling into bed, knowing sleep would evade you as long as the Time Lord did.

You crept into the library, knowing he tended to haunt whilst you slept. You barely set foot here, it was his domain. The TARDIS would give you books, but it rarely led you to the actual library.

It was jarring to see him so dressed down, hair wet, curled up on the sofa in pyjamas and a dressing gown. He had a book in one hand, but you hadn’t seen him turn a page yet, busy texting with his other hand. The fire was unlit.

With each step, you braced for some kind of intruder alarm. For him to tell you to leave. You pulled your own robe closer around yourself, the chill of the room making you want to turn on your heel. When you finally approached the little circle of sofas where he was sat, he cleared a folded blanket from the seat next to him.

Nervously you sat down, pulling your socked feet up and leaning against the backrest of the couch, facing him with as much distance between your bodies as possible.

He put his book and phone down, turning to appraise you for a moment.

“The new tissue will still be pretty tender. You should probably get some rest. That stuff’s powerful, but it takes a lot of energy to regrow cells like that.”

You could tell. You were fatigued, but surging with far too much adrenaline to sleep. He trailed off his rambling, mirroring your position in a diminutive way you’d never known him to move.

Those damn eyes of his were so pretty in the library lighting, free from anger or excitement. In a soft robe, without the usual flair of his flash clothes or styled hair, he seemed to much smaller. More human. His jaw was lined with a five o’clock shadow – he was going cleanshaven at the moment. You’d seen the full beard before, but never just stubble. He usually tried to rid himself of it as soon as possible.

You found yourself wishing you had something to do with your hands, a glass of something, a mobile phone, magazine, anything. You hugged your knees closer to your chest, mentally begging the TARDIS to get the hint and turn up the heat in the room. This was another space which seemed completely wrong for the outback cabin, but it was the most _him_ space in the whole ship. All high-ceilings and grandeur, gold-embossed books. For all you knew, he didn’t even have a bedroom. He just stayed in here.

He wasn’t watching you like an intruder, though. You couldn’t place the emotion in his eyes.

“Did you really think I was about to kill you?”

“I guess…”

There was a rasp in your voice. It was the first time you’d spoken since taking the oxygen mask off, and it was _rough_. You cleared your throat, grateful for the little strength your vocal cords had recovered.

“I guess I panicked. You seemed so angry, and I didn’t know what you were doing.”

You weren’t sure where the line was here. Whether you’d already crossed it, by setting foot in here. Whether you were toeing the line with every word. The Master frowned.

“So, you did. You thought I was…”

God, words were hard. You didn’t know what he wanted to hear. What his reaction would be. You didn’t even know what you wanted to say.

The Master opposite you, fresh from the shower, wearing slippers with his feet on the sofa, might as well be a different person to the suited alien who’d first picked you up on earth.

“You seemed really angry, and I’d fucked up–”

“Not that badly.” He interrupted. “Not at all, in fact. You blew up the ship, we made it out, that’s all you had to do.”

“How was I meant to know that? You were yelling at me like I’d ruined everything!”

“I was wound up!”

You fixed him with a glare.

“You didn’t even notice when I couldn’t breathe!”

He conceded, stared down at the few inches of sofa cushion between your feet. You fixed your gaze on the waves drying into his unstyled hair as you spoke, much more comfortable with that than with his puppy-dog eyes.

“Just… the way you yell at me. Always make it all my fault… I never even know if you’ll wait for me to get back to the TARDIS before you run off.”

His head snapped back up, expression thunderous.

“Fucking hell. Of course I wouldn’t leave you behind!”

He gripped your hand, making you flinch with surprise. It was awkward, as he struggled to intertwine your fingers without your co-operation, but he didn’t give up. His skin was surprisingly soft against yours.

“You did before.”

“Yeah, on Earth, years ago, when we first met. You might notice, I’m rather more attached to you now. And I certainly wouldn’t have left you on a burning ship in the middle of space, even then!”

It would be so easy to believe him, but he’d never acted like this before. Never let you into his space before, spoken with so little ego. He was so good at playing characters, it was sometimes hard to tell where his own started. Glimpses behind his bravado were so rare, you couldn’t piece him together.

He changed the subject.

“How are you feeling?”

“Better. Breathing doesn’t hurt anymore. Just a bit uncomfortable.”

“Good. Should get better.”

Silence. He seemed to have forgotten your hands were even connected. He loosened his grip on you suddenly, disguising the movement with a stretch and a yawn. You yawned too.

“Are you cold?” he asked suddenly, climbing up from the sofa. You watched him with amusement.

“A bit.”

“Can you bring the temperature up a bit, love?” He spoke up to the ceiling.

You assumed that was for your benefit. He constantly explained how he could talk to the ship telepathically. The TARDIS lights moved, warming in colour as confirmation.

He crossed out of your eyeline for a second, behind the couch, and returned with two mugs of hot chocolate. You took yours from him with an unintentional brush of his fingers, clutching the mug close to your chest. A peace offering. You laughed as he struggled not to spill his own drink, folding himself back onto the sofa.

The looked he gave you was almost bashful as he chuckled at himself, blowing across the steaming liquid in front of him.

Oh!

He was nervous, you realised. The Master was _nervous_.

The room was noticeably warmer as you slowly drank, and you thanked him for it.

“You can always ask her yourself; you know. This is your home too.”

“Didn’t know if you’d be too warm,” you brushed off the weight of his comment, a little overwhelmed by the implication.

Home.

“Don’t worry about me. Much more physiologically resilient.”

His jibe didn’t land because of how _sad_ he sounded. You took another sip, careful not to burn your mouth.

“Evidently.”

“Hm.”

He fidgeted, his slippers finding a resting place touching your socks.

“You should have told me, as soon as you were hurt.”

“I couldn’t exactly stop running,” you pointed out, expecting him to roll his eyes at you.

Instead, this gaze stayed level, eyes boring into yours. His reply was as timid as you’d ever heard.

“As soon as you got into the TARDIS, then.”

“You were busy yelling at me.”

“Then you should have told me to shut the fuck up!”

“Like you would have listened.”

He sighed, resting his head on the back of the sofa, watching you at a forty-five degree angle. You shifted down, entangling your feet further, to rest your head the same way. God, he was pretty like this.

“I looked like death, and you were too wound up to even notice.”

He closed his eyes opening them with that exaggerated eye roll you’d been waited for.

“I’m an idiot.”

You smiled at him, trying to ignore the flip-flopping of your stomach as he smiled softly back. You hoped he wouldn’t notice the way your face was warming up. Laying on the sofa, cosy and warm from the pyjamas and hot chocolate, you had a sudden realisation.

He was looking after you.

Keeping you safe.

Apologising.

Like a switch had flipped, your eyelids felt impossibly heavy. As much as you longed to stay like this, on the sofa with The Master, your adrenaline had finally worn off. Another yawn.

When you opened your eyes, he was still watching you.

“Sorry, ‘m tired.”

“You’ve been awake for ages,” he pointed out.

“I don’t wanna move.”

It was a confession, more than being bone tired, you didn’t want to break this moment. This _spell_.

“Then don’t.”

He took your mug gently, bringing it to his lips to finish the last of your hot chocolate, before putting it next to his own on the floor.

You barely had time to react before he guided you to lie down, making space for your head on his soft thighs. Physically, you were comfy, but mentally, you couldn’t process what he was doing. He held you still with one hand as he leant over you to retrieve his book, stroking your hair out of your face.

You were conscious of every breath, every swallow, as he opened looked for the page he wanted, the lights dimming around you.

This was too much. His fingers were still brushing through your hair.

“Aren’t you tired?” You asked.

“A bit. I don’t need that much sleep, though.”

Bullshit.

“You keep yawning.”

When he didn’t reply, you rolled onto your back, looking up at him. He moved the book, so it no longer separated your faces.

“True.”

It took a frown from you for him to sigh, putting his book aside as he conceded.

You made space for him as he laid out on the sofa beside you, surprising you with one arm wrapping around you, a strong hand on your back pulling you closer to him.

His dressing gown was soft against your face as he pulled you into his chest. One of his legs rested against yours, jostling you as he toed his slippers off.

“Comfy?”

“Yeah.”

You barely moved as you replied, too focused on the gentle movement of his chest next to your face. You couldn’t figure out where to put your hands. One settled by your face, the other on his side. He must have been exhausted, his breaths already evening out in anticipation of sleep.

It was a struggle to do the same, to relax, with his body against yours. You forgot to inhale, too busy basking in the comfort of his familiar cologne, as his stubbly cheek moved against the crown of your head. You could feel the movement of his lips as he mumbled sleepily against your hair:

“Breathe.”


	2. Speedy Recovery

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> confession: I did not beta this. sowwy.

He was usually cooler than you, but The Master’s body felt warm as you woke, yawning and blinking into the dim light of the library. He loosened the arm clenching you to his side, giving you space to stretch.

Maybe you’d moved in the night, or maybe he’d moved you, because you were laid out on his chest, one knee flung across is legs as he lay on his back. The damn book was back, and he was reading it in the lowlight, presumably waiting for you to wake up.

It was hard to imagine him staying when he didn’t have to. You felt oddly touched. He held you close, your upper body still resting on his torso. He shifted to see your face better, his head propped up on a throw cushion.

“Sleep well?”

Oh, his morning voice. Rasping, rumbling in his chest underneath your head as he spoke. It wouldn’t last long, you knew, gone even before his stubble.

You uncurled your fingers from their grip on his dressing gown neckline, the robe now unbuckled and only covering his shoulders. Underneath, his pyjamas were old school, matching button up and trousers in a familiar purple and gold tartan which only he could have the audacity to look attractive in.

Fuck. It was hard not to think like that, with your cheek resting on his chest, double heartbeats under your ear. You could see chest hair, where a button had undone on his rumpled sleep shirt.

“What you reading?”

“Some crap travel guide,” he checked the cover. “Fiftieth century, Amanopia.”

The cover wasn’t in a language you recognised, and the TARDIS wasn’t translating. You decided to take him at his word.

“Hm. Should we go?”

“Nah. Nothing exciting there. Not that century, anyway. Plenty of better things to do!”

“Like what?”

He dropped the book unceremoniously beside the sofa, his free hand moving to stroke your hair away from your face.

“Waiting for you to recover.”

“Sounds boring.”

Suddenly, both of his hands were cupping your face, moving your head to face him and forcing you to rest more of yourself on his body.

“Sounds necessary,” he insisted.

The firmness, the finality, surprised you. He was never one for waiting around. Only for you, it seemed.

“You’re awfully protective, suddenly.”

You regretted asking as soon as he tensed up beneath you. You could feel the muscles in his chest.

“I just… realised I yell at you quite a lot. And that maybe, you don’t exactly enjoy that.”

“I thought I annoyed you.”

And yet, you were in his library, bodies pressed together. You were desperately trying to ignore the thinness of his sleepwear, sure he’d tune into your thoughts if they strayed too far from safety. His hands were still on your face

“I don’t know if it’s escaped your notice, but I care about you an awful lot.”

“That’s dodging the question,” you chuckled nervously, unaccustomed to the intensity of those big brown eyes gazing into yours, the sincerity of his voice.

You’d stood to the side, tried to suppress jealousy, as he’d seduced his way into the favour of kings, queens, emperors, guards, you name it. Now, you understood their weakness. But you had no power or riches for him to steal, no secondary reason for him to be treating you like this.

You knew what he wanted.

“I _really_ care about you _._ ”

His eyes closed, and you could see the tension in his face. The fear of being rejected. Your hands found the stubble of his face. Fuck, you wanted to meet his lips so badly, feel their softness against your own.

“Morning breath.”

The Master’s eyes snapped open.

“What?”

“Let me go brush my teeth!”

Again.

“What?”

“I’ll be back! I’ll be so quick, I swear.”

You heard his groan as you climbed off him, limbs stiff from sleeping on the sofa. Your body missed his, missed the contact, and you tightened your dressing gown tighter around yourself, desperate not to feel vulnerable. He watched you in shock as you left, and you hoped this moment could be unpaused once you got back.

“Give me two minutes.” You promised, already half-jogging as you reached the door.

“Be quick!” He called after you.

You needed to fix your breath. That was why this was overwhelming. Not his sudden honesty. Not the way he looked at you like you were his whole universe. He way his hands trailed across your body so easily, so casually, when they’d barely touched you before.

You couldn’t even remember holding his hand, before this. A few short victory hugs, but that was it. Even then, the ghosts of his arms around you had haunted you long into the night, every single time.

He’d been about to kiss you.

The living ship around you felt like it was watching, judging, as you tried to calm yourself. What would the TARDIS think? Would she judge you now? Your cowardice? Her gentle hum didn’t suggest any kind of reaction.

The bathroom was so much colder than the library. Maybe it was the absence of his body. Maybe the ship was making you shiver on purpose. You rushed through a familiar routine, as fast as you could manage. Teeth. Pee. Brush hair. Wash face. Quick.

You caught sight of your own face in the mirror as you rinsed off. Your skin had recovered its colour, eyes no longer bloodshot. You’d have to thank him. The Time Lord had worked miracles, and you hadn’t bothered to even thank him. Guilt returned, and you pushed it down. He certainly hadn’t harboured any anger towards you that morning. Not with his tender hands and gentle, honest conversation.

This was good. Fine. You’d wanted it for so long, it felt _wrong_. Since you first got to know him, you’d longed for this side of him to bare itself to you. There were billions who wouldn’t, but you trusted him. He was waiting for you.

It was a fight to wrench your feet from the cool tile of the bathroom, to try and make yourself look presentable without sparing more than a few seconds, and to make the walk back to the library.

When you rounded the door, he was still in the same spot, mugs and blankets cleaned up around him. He’d straightened his pyjamas, ditched his dressing gown on a nearby chair, and returned to the spot he’d been sitting in. He jolted as you entered the room, regaining his composure and becoming you over. To sit on his lap.

Damn.

You were acutely aware of how thin your sleep clothes were as you straddled his thighs, keeping a very intentional distance between your bodies. He watched you with silent amusement, and you finally looked up at him once you couldn’t possible fidget anymore.

“Happy now?” The Master teased, his gaze shamelessly trailing down to your lips.

God those _eyes_. Ancient and full of wonder, all at once.

“Very.”

“Good.”

He kissed you so slowly, so delicately, like he thought you’d spook. You didn’t. Once your lips, met all sense of insecurity or awkwardness left your mind. You let yourself lean closer to him, closing the gap between your chests, fumbling the thick hair on the back of his head with one hand.

You groaned as he deepened the kiss, returning his enthusiasm. His hands were on your shoulders, each splayed finger pressing into your muscle as he followed your lips back. It took a quick jerk of your head to catch your breath, as his he finally stopped chasing the kiss.

A respiratory bypass would certainly have been helpful these last twenty-four hours.

You opened your eyes to see him smiling gently, lips already wet and reddened.

“Okay?”

“This feels weird,” you mumbled.

He laughed.

“Really? I’m very comfy.”

His hands covered your thighs where they covered his own. Damn, he had strong hands.

“I mean… it’s just…”

“I know.”

He cut you off, and you wished he hadn’t. You leant in close enough to kiss him, pausing to press your forehead to his instead.

“I’ve wanted this for so long.”

A mumbled confession, against his lips.

You didn’t need to be telepathic to tune into the smugness radiating off him.

“Me too.”

As you found his lips again, he was moving you backwards, laying you out on the sofa without breaking your deep kiss. You blindly fumbled for the buttons of his shirt, and he copied, reaching for your clothes. You could feel him against you, hard and heavy against your thigh as he straddled you.

In your fantasies he was rough, pinning your hips down, taking what he wanted from you.

His lips found your neck, ghosting over your skin so lightly you barely felt him, making you ache for more pressure. Your hands found his thick hair, pulling him closer, silently begging for him to kiss you harder, leave marks. He laughed against your skin.

He pulled way, sitting up to strip off his own shirt and all your clothes, struggling awkwardly together to free you of the dressing gown. Finally, you were naked beneath his shirtless body, and he watched you with an awe usually reserved for horrid, destructive fires.

He spared your breasts a squeeze, and half-hearted pinch at each nipple, but he was too far gone for any more foreplay. There would be other occasions. Time wasn’t an issue for you two.

The Master’s hand made its way down your body, fingertips dancing across your stomach until he found what he was looking for. He shuffled down your body to get a good view. The Master parted your thighs without even a glance at your face, too entranced to tease you more.

He brushed across your clit, parted your lips with an index and middle finger, his face lax in concentration. For a moment you expected him to tease you as he played with the wetness between your legs, fingers trailing over your lips against and again. He didn’t speak a word as he brought both digits to his mouth, waiting until you watched him with your undivided attention before parting his lips to suck your arousal off his own fingers. He moaned, making a show of licking them clean.

“Master…”

It was barely louder than a whisper, breathed out as you watched him, but you saw the change in him. The darkness in his eyes, the quickening of his breaths. His desperation.

His cock was straining against his trousers. You reached out for the waistband, fingers trailing across the taut fabric as you went. He groaned as you squeezed his clothed shaft, ruthlessly thrusting a saliva-soaked finger inside you. It was a kind of retaliation you could approve of, as a second finger quickly joined his first. He took a second to pump mercilessly, the stretch of his fingers still an invasion as he curved them inside you, making you lurch forwards with the intensity of his motions.

Just as you started to break a sweat, The Master slowed his movements, settling for smaller movements while his free hand spread out on your stomach, pushing you back onto the sofa.

Where you expected a grin, he was frowning in concentration.

“What do you want?”

His cock twitched as you brushed it again, making you clench around his fingers in anticipation. He batted your fingers away, replacing them with his own fingers, stroking his clothed shaft as his fingers stilled inside of you.

“Say it.”

“Fuck me, Master.”

Finally, he pulled himself out of his trousers, shoving the waistband down carelessly before he forced your thighs even further apart, lining up his head with your clit. He thrust messily across you, barely providing friction with how wet you were. Even as you jolted from the pleasure of him stroking across your clit, you wanted more.

“Master…”

One flash of that cheeky smile, and he was slowly pressing into your wetness. He thrust shallowly to start with, letting you gasp and grip the soft flesh on his hips as you adjusted to the fullness of him inside you, above you. He was sweating like you’d never seen before, arms trembling with the exertion of holding himself back. You could feel his strength, unlike anything you’d known in a human, the restraint he was exercising to avoid hurting you.

You didn’t need to say anything, just a press of your lips to the bicep beside your head was enough confirmation for him to start moving. His hands found your throat before quickly relocating to the muscle either side of your neck, clasping your shoulders tight as he fucked you. Each deep stroke made you gasp for air, one hand creeping down to rub at your clit, bumping clumsily against his stomach as he fucked you.

It was too much, too much anticipation. You didn’t last long, and he finished as soon as you did, uttering in a language you didn’t speak as you groaned, walls spasming around his cock inside you, hand still desperately rubbing at your clit.

As he collapsed onto you, pressing a kiss into your forehead, you revelled in the weight of his body on yours. He flung a blanket over your bodies, pinning you in place, mumbling praise into your neck.

“You were such so good,” he praised, shifting his weight slightly off you. “So good.”

“Not too bad yourself.”

The Master claimed to barely need sleep, but he was losing coherence by the second, nuzzling his stubble into your neck. One hand squeezed your waist, before snaking across to beneath your breasts, feeling for a moment.

“Not a very good rest day.” He complained.

“I don’t know, I feel pretty relaxed.”

“Good.”

The TARDIS dimmed the lights, and you adjusted the cushion beneath your heads, stifling a laugh at how floppy The Master’s head was as he was jostled. Out like a light.

“We should relax more later.”

He didn’t reply, but the smile against your neck felt like a definite _yes._


End file.
